


The Cinematic Winchester

by SweetSamaritan



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Weechesters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-13
Updated: 2013-08-16
Packaged: 2017-12-19 08:57:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/881903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweetSamaritan/pseuds/SweetSamaritan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Wincest) Sam has been Dean's since the start, since the day his father put him in his charge. This is the evolution of their relationship, from the very beginning to the very end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the song ‘To Build a Home’ by The Cinematic Orchestra. Lyrics have been re-written by myself making it ‘To Build a Home’ but the Cinematic Winchester. This is one of my all-time favourite songs, simply because of how simple and raw it is. It’s truly beautiful. I thought it’d be fitting for the boys’ relationship. 
> 
> Loosely based on this post http://suchalovelybrother.tumblr.com/post/51486470718/au-when-john-finds-out-about-his-sons-sexual
> 
> Rated M for language, sexual themes/situations and violence (I’m not really part of the John-Winchester-Father-Of-The-Year-Fan Club as you may soon be able to tell). Weecest is implied. I do not own any of the characters. Original song belongs to The Cinematic Orchestra.

"There is a house not made of stone

Nor wooden floors, walls or window sills

But wheels and chairs worn by all of the dust

This is a place where I don't feel alone

This is the place you and I call home."

The Cinematic Winchester – To Build a Home

(.:.)

"That's Orion's belt," he smiled, fingertips caressing three particular stars, mere pinpricks dwarfed by his small hand.

Dean eyed his brother's face, wonderment, excitement and the refreshing look of innocence still rife on his soft features, a face not yet marred by the weight of life's sick sights. Sam's eyes glimmered in what little of the moon's ethereal light had managed to force itself through the slat of the back seat window, pane wound down, gentle breeze licking at the bangs of the young Winchester's hair, ruffling the front, nose scrunching up against the sensation as he flicked it from his eyes.

"Tell me about it," Dean murmured, sinking a little further back into the leather of the seat, small smile tugging at the corners of his lips at the sight of his brother, his gentle encouragement sparking something inside the kid that only ever happened when he got to really let loose, come alive with the things he'd taught himself, all the things he'd learnt outside the realms of salt and sulphur, rifles and rugaru.

Sam shuffled in his seat, leaning over his brother's lap to get a better look at the blanket of sky that yawned openly above their heads, dwarfing and enveloping them in a shimmering cloak, black metal of the Impala's hood collecting each and every star like a grain of sand.

"It's the hunter," he heard Sam murmur, brow furrowing a little in concentration. Dean shuffled underneath him, moulded himself around Sam's steadily-lengthening body, questioning his own memory as he slotted his own limbs in between his little brother's lanky pair of legs. At what point had Sam begun to outgrow him and, more importantly, why hadn't he noticed?

"Is it now? What else?"

This is the hunter's reprieve, a brief period alone with the boy he'd had a hand in raising, a moment to take a breath and recollect, to grow, to bond and allow the boy the pleasure of being normal for a change – what he'd always wished for. He thought Dean didn't know or, if he did, thought he didn't care. But Sam was a special kid – smart in a way he himself could never be. Sam remembered dates, facts, names – all the sorts of things that could ace a test and guarantee you a job in a big office building, the type with plenty of glass and fancy lunches, water coolers and secretaries. Dean knew how to shoot a gun and not get killed and though he didn't mind not knowing all the elements of the Periodic Table or why the sky was blue he couldn't help envy the boy who did, his little brother, the kid with the bright future.

"It's an asterism," he heard him say, Sam's head almost entirely out of the window, knee dangerously close to his brother's crotch though Dean made no move to interrupt him. Sam was gone – a look Dean was more than accustomed to by now. "A part of the constellation Orion. It consists of three stars…"

"Sa-"

"Alnitak is one of them," he interrupted, almost as though he was alone, speaking to himself.

Dean smiled, rested a gentle hand on his brother's back, a gesture with a dual purpose to both support Sam's precarious position and a reminder that Dean was still there, that Sam wasn't in fact alone.

"Alnilam and Mintaka are the other two," he murmured, crossing his arms against the door frame, head resting against them.

"They teach you this at school?" Dean muttered incredulously, mindlessly beginning to draw his own constellations against his little brother's bowed back, huffing out a breath of laughter every time he caught a rib or a segment of his spine that would elicit a shiver from the boy in his lap.

The boy shrugged his shoulders, "Sort of…"

That forced yet another rare smile from the eldest Winchester, a boy that had only just breached the cusp of manhood himself. He ran a hand idly through his hair, fingers of his spare hand probing robotically at the grip of the knife at his side, worn polished wood surprisingly warm from the heat of his own body. Dad wouldn't be gone for much longer – at least he hoped he wouldn't. They'd been working this particular case for a long, long while, Sam hitting the books, Dean stumbling around houses and police stations for leads, scribbled and barely legible addresses in his father's own hand his only guides around towns and cities that were as alien to him as his own family sometimes were. They'd been there so long Sam had had to be put back into the school system, Dean dropping him off on the first day, little kid reluctant to even let go of his brother's jacket sleeve as the bell had gone signalling their parting, his little brother being led away by some teacher leaving Dean alone beneath the flagpole, Impala to his left, eyes on his little brother's battered backpack before he'd disappeared through the doors of the world that would become Sam's safe haven. Because Sam's disinclination towards the American education system had only lasted so long before the call of text books and a stable, safe environment had him doing extra-curricular classes so fast Dean couldn't even blink.

"Extra reading little brother?" He offered, knowing full well how right he was in his assumption. After all, he'd found the astrology textbook beneath Sam's mattress himself.

His little brother turned, eyes filled to the brim, light of the Heaven's setting his pupil's alright. He was pure, purer than anything Dean had ever laid his hands on before, purer than anything he had ever had a chance to call his own. As far as Dean Winchester was concerned Sam was more than he could ever be, better, stronger, more beautiful in every way the Winchester could ever even begin to conceive or comprehend. The innocence that shielded his soul and the honesty that held his heart in its vice like grip protected him from the world they shied away from, the plane of reality where their blood walked the line. Sam was half civilian half soldier, a kid trapped somewhere between the two without the ability to take a side for, as Dean knew better than anyone, he did not have the freedom of that choice. But Sam was there, he was warm and he was open and he was constant. Sam was the living embodiment of all that tethered the elder brother to the waking world of honesty and sobriety, from the lightness of his brother's laugh to the luxury of his lips. Sam was humanity.

"Is it that obvious?"

Dean smirked, "Well you-"

Their bubble crumbled as gunfire shattered their reverie, screams and bloodcurdling shouts carried to them on the breeze, a gentle wind that still continued to comb its fingers through Sam's chestnut mop but now bore the weight of the pain of many. It all seemed too much for the younger of the brothers. Startled like a deer he bolted for the sanctity of his brother's body, eyes wide, pupils that once contained slivers of silver now blackened by fear, a fear they were both far too well acquainted with. Sam ducked his head into the warm crook of his brother's neck, legs entangled, arms wrapping around his chest and hands hooked beneath his arms to anchor himself down, body trembling, eyes snapped shut against the war that raged not far enough outside the fragile shell of their wheeled home.

Dean's hands moved on auto-pilot, fingers raking themselves through his brother's hair, parted lips ghosting soft breaths across Sam's forehead, other hand reaching instinctively for the sawn-off that lay by his feet. He rested the firearm across his knees to free up a hand, hooking one beneath the backs of his brother's legs in an attempt to collect him up and reposition him in a far more logical direction. Oh when had that boy grown up? He was all legs and arms, the latter of which were wrapped around him so tightly he could barely breathe. Dean draped his brother across his lap, settling himself firm in the back seat of the Impala, fingertips caressing the cold barrel of the gun on his knees, gentle hand stroking and cradling the back of his little brother's head as his eyes strained themselves against the horizon.

"It's alright Sam. It'll be okay – I got you."

(.:.)

And I built a home

For you

For me

Until it disappeared

From me

From you

But now, it's time to leave and turn to dust.

(.:.)

The blows came hard but he'd long ago stopped feeling them. He was used to it, accustomed to being beaten and bloodied by all the dregs of hell and God-forsaken sons of bitches they came across on an almost monthly basis, though none hit as hard or as low as his own father. Spirits aimed to maim, vampires and werewolves to kill and that was the way of that world, but when kin attacked kin it was to cause pain. John wasn't aiming to kill him, though the look in his eye and the barbs that lay behind his words had certainly spoken of his withheld intent. It came to something when Dean could tell his own dad was holding back, that he knew he could hit harder, knew he could make him hurt far more than he was dishing out. But he didn't fight back despite wanting to, stood and took each blow as it came because somewhere, deep down, something or someone was telling him he deserved it, that every point of contact had been earned by his actions and his actions alone. Because at the end of the day, no matter how consensual the situation had been, Dean had led his own little brother astray and taken that childish innocence along with him. Oh he cherished it alright, that sweet, sensitive virginity, the righteous and passionate way in which he'd given himself to his brother so completely. But in the eyes of a father, Dean was the devil incarnate, a stain against the family name and a dark temptation to the youngest of the three who had, unbeknownst to their father, actually instigated the act himself.

But John hadn't heard that when he'd caught them, when he'd latched his hands onto his eldest son and dragged him away, Sam kicking and screaming at the door as he'd locked it against him. That boy had battered his fists to breaking point against the wood, fracturing it, fracturing himself, palms of his hands and fingernails bleeding as he'd shrieked and swore and shouted his lungs raw as he heard each blow connect, each bone break.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?"

Dean stood his ground as another well placed blow connected with his stomach, allowed himself to double over, breath knocked completely from his body. His teeth rattled in his skull, ears ringing, the corners of his eyes stinging as the tears threatened to breach the barriers of his lashes, eyes clamped shut against the onslaught he knew was on its way. He wouldn't – not in front of his father.

"Dad – stop! Fucking stop!"

Dean rose again, bred and bold enough to look his father in the eye. He wiped the blood from his nose with the back of his hand, spat against the lino tiles at his feet to rid himself of that foul metallic taste he hated. His gaze didn't waver despite his body, the elder brother rocking slightly on his heels as the room inverted, walls shrinking back and closing in, dark and coloured spots marring his vision as he attempted to keep himself conscious. He wouldn't pass out on his dad's watch, especially not by his father's own hand.

"I trusted you with him Dean – is this – what even is this?"

"Don't pretend like you don't know," he murmured, his petulance sounding far more exhausted than he'd hoped.

His father's hand came down hard against his shoulder, fingers digging harshly into the muscle just below his neck, the tears he'd held back until this point just about managing to break cover. Dean gritted his teeth and planted his feet that little bit wider apart to brace himself, blacking out once though a rough squeeze managed to drag him right back to reality again. John pulled him close, father and son face to face, his dad's eyes roaming his body and expression for something – anything to imply he'd got it wrong. But Dean was naked save the sheet he'd dragged with him, a fabrication of modesty he'd quickly slung around his waist before the blows had begun, the look on his face one of guarded pride and guilt as he stared John down, unable to look away even if he'd wanted to.

"You sick son of a bitch," he growled, a guttural sound, one that reverberated through his son's core.

This time there was no connection, no fist against soft flesh, no fingernails digging into aching and torn muscle. Perhaps John would regret training them so well one day, looking back on that evening with retrospect heavy on his mind, knowing full well that if he hadn't taught them every single trick of their trade the situation would have turned out quite differently. But Sam stood tall now, far taller than both of the men he'd joined amid the fray, large hand engulfing his father's fist before it could reconnect with his brother's battered body. Those eyes, those soft hazel eyes that had once held slivers of the sky were now hard pinpricks of something Dean couldn't quite lay his finger on, but something that scared him more than anything he'd seen that night thus far. For at nineteen years old Sam was built like and as sturdy as the old oak that grew in front of their old Lawrence home and may have been as tall – would have no problem climbing the thing like he had done when they were kids. Because Sam Winchester wasn't a kid anymore, and the anger that burned behind the darkened mahogany of his shifting irises spoke of a man who'd seen enough. And Sam had certainly had enough.

"Lay one more hand on him and I swear-"

His words were slow, careful, but each was punctuated with enough force that John seemed to falter in his tirade, the interruption giving Dean time enough to breathe, to recover, to shrink away slightly from the shadow his father had cast over his bruised and broken form. He tried to catch his brother's eye in vain, Sam's attentions saved purely for the man he'd called a father, a man that had locked him in a bedroom to beat the living hell out of his brother and his lover. Dean was well aware there was worse to come yet, torn between nursing his wounds and continuing to stand his ground. But he knew now, faced as he was with the overbearing weight of his brother's anger and the poison that boiled in his father's veins, that he had very little left to give.

"You'll what – son?" He hissed, dropping his arm, Sam unhanding him briefly though his fist remained clenched as it fell to his side.

"This isn't his fault!"

"Then whose fault is it Sam – enlighten me please!"

Sam's brow furrowed, Dean taking a well-practiced step back as the younger of the two turned his head away, teeth grit, eyes tightly snapped shut. He knew the look as well as he knew all of Sam's others, knew that a look like that was a warning for anyone in the immediate area to keep their distance or take cover. He highly doubted their own father would be aware of the signs though, subtle as they were, as ignorant as he was to his own son's body language.

"It's no one's fault! For fuck's sake – it is what it is!"

"Sam wai-"

"No Dean – I won't," he sighed, voice still raised, hand held up to still his brother's tongue. "You need to know that this is something. And I don't know what that 'something' is exactly but I am damn well sure it's not going anywhere anytime soon. So if you can't hack that then-"

"Sam!"

"Listen to your brother Sam," he muttered, taking a step away from Dean towards the boy he'd looked down on nought but six months ago, "don't test me."

"Or you'll what?" Sam hissed, biting out his words, "You can't order me around anymore John," he spat, hands at his sides itching to move, to hit something, to cause some damage to compensate for the blood that sat between his father's knuckles. "I'm not that little kid you scared into hunting – not anymore. You can shout until you're blue in the face or beat me till I bleed but where's that gonna' get you huh? Where's that really gonna' get you?"

The threat was there, subtle, underhanded; an undercurrent of meaning only Dean managed to grasp a hold of. He winced at it, fear rising like bile at the back of his throat, curdling his already aching stomach, making him sweat cold. He'd grown and grown fast – John would say almost too fast. He didn't understand the severity of the situation surely? They were balanced on the head of a pin, teetering either way as they attempted to remain in balance, in control. John was dangerous, always had been, a coiled spring ready to erupt, snake ready to strike, predator ready to sink it's teeth into whatever got in its way next. What they had – it was confusing, frightening… wrong. At the end of the day they were all he had left stable in the world save Bobby, without them he'd have nothing left to fight for – even with. But Sam was pushing it and Dean was more scared than he'd ever been in his life. His dad had done that to him by barely lifting a finger, Dean taking it head on without a word in edgeways. Sam was baiting the trap and all Dean could do was wait for it to snap shut.

"Oh boy – you have no fucking idea what I am capable of."

(.:.)

And snap shut it did.

They'd argued, well into the night. John had hit Sam and Sam had hit back harder, old man hitting the floor heavy. All hell had broken loose not long after that. And Dean had stood there in the midst of it all, blank, emotionless, little plastic soldier caught between two bickering kids, heat of the magnifying glass bearing down over his head. And he'd done nothing, stood there as Sam had screamed at their father, done nothing when John had told him never to come back, done nothing when Sam had gathered his things and left, slamming the door shut behind him. Dean had done nothing.

The papers came through not long after that, after days of Sam's phone coming up blank, garbled messages left on voicemail, asking leading to pleading, desperate notes exchanged across a deaf line. John hadn't stopped drinking – neither had Dean. But the old man could handle his alcohol and seemed to be in a fit enough state to comprehend the gravity of the situation, sober enough to understand what the legal jargon, the official seals and the fancy paper meant for them both. Sam was gone – Stanford and a new life waiting for him on that once distant horizon leaving both men to drown their sorrows in bottles of whisky and scotch. John had scoffed, swigged back the last of his bottle and traipsed over to his son, Dean loading and unloading his gun for the fifth time that hour, boy mindlessly cleaning the equipment despite its pristine condition. The papers had fluttered down over his head like crisp autumn leaves, each landing feather-light in his lap or at his feet, Sam's eloquent signature the only thing Dean really cared to see in amongst the pages of typed font. It was all he really needed to see – it was enough.

"It's better off this way boy," his father had muttered, hand placed lightly on his shoulder. Dean had flinched.

(.:.)

He was forbidden from calling – from making contact.

Father and son hunted together for months in silence, odd comment passed across the dinner table, odd text sent from his dad's mobile if he was lucky – if John was in a forgiving mood. But Dean was tired, feet dragging, body heavy. They hadn't stopped – guessed his dad was keeping his little boy busy. One hunt followed another, no rest stop, no time for the body to pick itself up and recuperate. Cuts and bruises remained cuts and bruises, gashes and broken bones got sewn together and reset in the field – no pain killer, no antibiotics, no meds. There was no time for weakness, no time to think. Dean had long ago accepted that that was the true aim of it all, the true aim of the relentlessness and fruitlessness of their ventures. With no time to eat, sleep or even take a shit Dean had no time to breathe let alone think. What did his dad really think ran through his head – that he was constantly fantasizing about fucking his brother? The thought hadn't crossed his mind ever since that night – the night that Sam had left them both behind. He just wanted him back, just Sam, just as they were.

Dean was a good soldier, but there were some orders he could not simply follow.

John's chest rose and fell, eyes fluttering behind his dark lashes. Gin poured in a steady stream into a pool on the floor at the foot of the sofa, hands still loosely wrapped around the neck like a comfort. Dean's own eyes were heavy, mind buzzing behind his lids as he attempted to keep himself awake. He counted seconds as they came, the steady tick of the clock on the wall above the fire keeping him in rhythm, humming beneath his breath in a bid to keep himself occupied. A small, cold weight sat shaking in his clammy hands, hands he held beneath the table in an almost prayer-like manner. His attentions never left his father, the old man long having fallen to the temptations of unconsciousness, but his son had to be sure – had to be certain. The consequences (if he was caught) didn't bare thinking about.

He removed himself from the chair, wincing slightly as the wooden feet dragged against the tiles of the kitchen, Dean swiftly tugging his jacket off the back of the chair as he slipped out the front door. The night air was cold and bit hard, the Winchester donning his jacket desperately as his body reacted violently to the chill of the night. The world around him was barren, car alarms muttering to themselves in the twilight, streetlamps flickering broken and battered in the street that ran perpendicular to their motel room, logical explanations for the power failures startlingly obvious though the boy still shivered all the same, one hand itching to feel the comfort of steel and wood beneath his fingertips. He leant back against the front door and huffed out a breath, puff of white rising and caressing the stubble across his jaw, eyes turned towards the bleakness that erupted over his head in a thousand tiny sparks. His eyes roamed the darkness, eyes fighting to become accustomed to the blackness against the glare of the lights above his head, Winchester pinching the bridge of his nose as he psyched himself up to make the call.

The mobile phone sat dead and alien in the palm of his hand, both too big and too small and looking far too out of place in his calloused grasp. He flipped the lid, thumb stroking the buttons before he typed in the number he hoped was still live – the number he prayed would at least allow him to listen to the sound of Sam's voice. He held the mobile to his ear, cold metal and plastic pressed hard against the heat of his body, hope and an incredible sickness fluttering and curling in the depths of his gut. He waited.

"H'lo?" The voice on the other end was rough, tone sleep-thick and unused.

Dean breathed out a soft sigh, breath once again clouding in front of his face. A small smile played across his lips.

"Hello?" More insistent. Demanding. Irritated. That was Sam alright.

"I found it," Dean murmured, barely more than a whisper.

"Who is this?"

Dean turned his eyes towards the sky, wondered if his brother shared the same sort of view.

"Orion."

There was silence on the other end of the line, a hitch of a breath.

"Dean?" Sam's voice drifted down the phone as a strangled whisper, an admission of guilt. Dean closed his eyes, leant back further into the shadow of the doorway of their motel room, spare hand running roughly through his unkempt hair.

"Yeah Sam – it's me."

"You can't-"

"Call you? Yeah – I know," he sighed, heel of his palm rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "But here I am. I miss you Sam. I really do."

The voice at the end of the phone sounded desperate. "Dean-"

"I'm sorry Sam I know it's late but I-"

There was a shuffle over the other end of the line, the sound of fabric against fabric, muttered whispers dulled by soft hushes. Dean frowned, worried his lip between his teeth as he waited.

"You really can't just call me like this Dean I-"

"Sam-"

"Sam? What's goin' on?"

That was the moment the world seemed to become that little bit too close, suffocating, overpowering, asphyxiating the eldest to the point he found he could hardly breathe. His chest ached, fingernails of his clenched hand digging into his flesh as he found himself trying to rip the pain out, tried to dig his way between his ribs to get at his lungs, allow himself a breath. But there was no real salvation save the sharp kisses of the wind against his cheeks as the blood drained from his face, the way the night bit and licked at his fingers as the cell fell away from his ear. He could still hear their conversation, small muttering voices continuing on their plain of reality not far enough away from Dean's as it crumbled around his feet. But there was no helping that – not when the voice on the other end of the line had been a woman's.

Dean scrubbed a hand over his face, palm coming to rest against his lips as he stifled whatever sound threatened to escape his throat, noises he feared would wake the hurricane sleeping only a wall away. His skin came away wet, taste of salt heavy against his tongue as he licked his lips damp, mouthpiece returning as he fought for the right words to say. It didn't take him long to find them.

"You're right Sam – I shouldn't have called. Congratulations on Stanford little brother. Enjoy your fucking life."

The line went dead as he snapped the lid shut, breaths coming sharp and shaky now as sucked them in greedily, eyes tightly squeezed shut, cheeks wet, skin nipped red by the cold. He couldn't seem to control the shake of his hands, knees weak as he leant back heavy against the door for support, cursing himself, his father, Sam – fucking everything for the way things had turned out yet again. He couldn't think straight, couldn't feel, outside numbed by the chill of the night air, insides paralytic. He didn't have a path set, didn't have a hope to hold on to. Sam had been at the end of that tunnel, a bright burning road in amongst the bullshit that was his general existence. Even away at Stanford he'd held on to that, so many months down the line they were bordering on a year. But he'd held on. He'd had faith. He'd remained faithful to his own blood.

The door slammed shut behind him. The hurricane fell from his perch with a smash of glass, a grunt and a foul curse, eyes wild and dazed as John's became accustomed to the lack of light, Dean's bulk highlighted by the light of neon signs that buzzed non-stop through the blinds that covered their window, face stone cold and gaze dead, phone crushed in the white-knuckle grip he had around the innocent device.

"Dean-"

"You were right," he murmured, chucking the remains of the tech in the general direction of the trash can in the kitchen, not quite meeting his father's eye. "It's better this way."

Will continue in real time in Part 2 - Season 1 Wendigo.


	2. Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a long cursed road - but there is happiness to be found here.

And I built a home

For you

For me

Until it disappeared

From me

From you

But now, it's time to leave and turn to dust.

(.:.)

It was dark – he fucking hated the night.

Forests too – forests were creepy as fuck in the dark. Midges were annoying little assholes – as if he didn't have enough things after his blood already, why not add a few winged sons of bitches into the mix.

"Why are we even here Dean?"

"Because we help people Sam – it's the fucking job!"

He couldn't remember arguing like this with him – not since the day he'd left. Sure he'd had him by the collar of his shirt a few times since they'd been forced back together, he'd had Sam pinned his fair share of times too since Jess has burned but this – this was a new level of fall out. Sam had been like a powder keg all day, almost taken Roy's head off if he hadn't calmed him down. Yeah Roy was a douche (he really was) but he didn't need what Sam would have brought down on his sorry ass of he hadn't gotten in the way. Dean knew – knew Sam was in one of those moods where any excuse to fight was cause enough for him. Kid was chomping at the bit for an altercation, would take every chance he got. But Hayley didn't need that – Roy deserved it but he didn't need it either. Better he take the hit than those sorry sons of bitches who wouldn't know what'd hit them because, as Dean knew better than anyone, when Sam hit oh boy did he hit hard.

"No – that's your job. Always has been. I signed up too look for dad and as much as these people-"

"Now you listen to me," he bit back through gritted teeth, hands pooling in his brother's shirt. "We don't get to choose what we sign up to. This isn't a fucking lifestyle choice Sam. When dad says go left-"

"We go left – oh don't worry man I know."

There was that marker – that damned sign that Sam had grown up so much. He looked so much like John it was uncanny and Dean had been on the receiving end of that enough times that he'd really begun to take notice. That clenched jaw? That assertive stance – the look-down-your-nose sarcasm? That was all John. But it wasn't the Sam he remembered. Sure the anger was there, that sweet, sweet, frightening anger that had the hairs on his arms standing to attention but this – this wasn't Sam. There was pain in those eyes, an age to the look in them that exceeded the number of years they'd seen. Dean knew that look too – had seen it enough every damned day when he'd brushed his teeth in either the motel or rear-view mirror. Sam hadn't left wearing that look, must have been something he'd picked up along the way.

"You're damned right we go left."

Sam sneered making Dean's breath catch in his throat. What the fuck had happened to that boy with the stars in his eyes?

"Daddy's little soldier," he murmured, low and guttural, lips mere centimetres away from his face. Dean shivered as his brother's breath wafted warm and dangerous over his cheeks, brow knit tight against the feel of it on his forehead. "I'm not you Dean – don't know if you've noticed that. I don't come running when dad blows that little whistle of his, don't jump when he says jump."

"Well Sam – if you had perhaps things'd be a little different now," he bit back, shoving Sam roughly in the chest. "How difficult was it really – leaving us? How difficult was it to rebel huh? Because you made it look damn easy."

There was a Wendigo at large, possibly circling them, walking the line, lured in by their raised voices or the smell of Roy's fucking macaroni bubbling on the camping stove. He noticed then how quiet it was, the chatter of Hayley and the others having died into nothingness, even the flicker and crack of the campfire hushing beneath the weight of their tension. It didn't cross his mind for long, monster forgotten, hunt forgotten, missing Tommy an afterthought as Sam shoved him back, Dean's body coming into hard contact with the trunk of a tree, wind knocked out of his lungs not long enough after as Sam drove his body full force into his, forearm pressing against his neck, forehead against forehead as they gasped for breath.

"You think that was easy for me?" he spat, baring that little bit more weight down against his brother, Dean squirming a little in his grasp. "You think that was fucking eas-"

"Sure made it look that way," he breathed, hands constricting tightly around his brother's arm for leverage, fingernails digging into hard bicep.

Sam battered him once against the bark, elder of the two wincing as his head cracked off the rough surface. Perhaps Roy should have taken the heat after all.

"You stood there Dean – just stood there and-"

"What did you want me to do Sam?" He could hear himself shouting, this voice coming from his body that he didn't know he had – that didn't sound like him. "What did you really expect me to do. Dad was-"

"Don't you fucking dare say he was right…"

It was then that Dean faltered, the moment he saw the anger dissipate from his brother's face like blood, flush of his cheeks standing in stark contrast to the pallor of his skin. Oh he was still pissed, he could feel it thrumming in Sam's veins, but there was a fear in his eyes that made his heart stop. It dawned on him them that his brother was scared, frightened of what Dean would say next – what he had on his mind unfinished. Despite Sam's growth, despite the distance between them, the younger of them still hung on to whatever it was Dean had to say. He had the power of words behind him and, although physically outmatched, he seemed to be holding the whole deck of cards precariously in the palm of his hand.

"He was right."

The grip Sam had on his shoulder tightened as the pressure eased off Dean's neck, hunter now able to stand on tiptoes with the tree as support instead of being hung in mid-air by his gargantuan younger sibling. Sam's gaze was elsewhere, hazed, dazed, unfocused on any one single point as though lost in thought. Dean didn't look at him as he felt the soles of his shoes connect with the soft earth underfoot, pine needles shifting beneath his boots. Sam's hand was a dead weight, heavy in a way it shouldn't have been, but dead all the same.

"He was right," he continued, unfazed by Sam's lack of response. "I was the oldest. I am the oldest Sam – I should never have-"

"You took the rap for me," he heard him murmur, hand moving from his shoulder to lie flat against the dark bark, palm flat and taking his weight. "I never asked you for that."

"You didn't have to."

"I instigated it."

"I should have never-"

"One more word and I'll rip your tongue out Dean I swear to God."

"You – we don't get a choice in this Sam," he murmured, somewhat surprised and a little taken back by how exhausted he sounded at the age of only twenty six. "I never had a choice. But you – you got out. You left. You got Stanford and you got Jess and-"

"Dean-"

There were tears in his brother's eyes but he ploughed on anyway, irrespective of the sensitive subject he knew was still in the process of tearing Sam's insides to shreds.

"You moved on from us – outgrew us… me. I was so proud of you. Fuck I mean I – you were always such a smart kid," he laughed humourlessly, head coming to rest against Sam's clenched fist. "You could have had a life and-"

"You never called."

"I couldn't fucking call," he spat out, gaze turning, falling on blind eyes. "Don't you understand that? He skinned be twice for trying – had to wait until the old man was in a coma before diallin' your digits… look where that fucking got me."

"What did you expect?"

"Patience," he murmured, attentions shifting to the space beside his brother's head, not quite able to look him in the eye.

"I didn't know-"

"I waited for you Sam."

"You don't think I did my fair share?" There it was again – that beautiful anger. "You don't think I waited every day by that phone until I had to give up – had to move on? You didn't make it fucking easy Dean!"

"Yeah? Well life was just peachy my end too Sam. If you'd stuck around you would have known that."

"You never asked me to stay," he murmured quietly, Dean shivering as his brother's soft breaths ghosted over him.

Dean's expression remained stoic, eyes hard, body unresponsive, he could feel Sam's eyes heavy on him, burning into the side of his head but his gaze remained loyal to the undergrowth, loyal to the dark and shadowy things that flittered on the outskirts of their camp, those that lingered just outside the line of light.

"I never asked you not to. That Sam – that decision was yoursand boy did you make it."

(.:.)

Out on the road where we planted our seeds

Metal as worn and old as me

'nitials carved under the seat

The only home we cared to see

From the cracks in the road we travelled on

We paved our way to see the world

(.:.)

It was dark, sunbeams forcing their way through the cracks in the roof the only source of light. He treaded carefully – oh so carefully, boots kicking up dust and debris with every step, breaths coming thick and fast – in through the nose, out through the mouth. Place stank of shit; rotting hay, machine oil and rusting metal all a heady mixture that threatened to turn your stomach in on itself.

They had no idea what they were dealing with –he had no idea. God damn did he hate hunting blind. With so little to go on it was any wonder they'd gotten Sam… whatever they were. Either way, be it Wendigo, vampire, shifter…. They'd all end up with a bullet in the skull or a knife between their ribs for touching his little brother. Shit like that didn't sit too well with him – sons of bitches they tended to go after obviously hadn't cottoned onto that yet.

The door made far too much noise when he opened it, a flurry of hay at his feet kicking up a storm in protest. He heard shuffles, breathing – decided to take his time. As he'd stated before, going in blind was a pain in the ass. Surveying the room, passing through the light – whatever they were dealing with had little to no taste when it came to furnishing the place. Unkempt barns – those were nothing new. Chains hanging from the ceiling, old machinery lying here there and everywhere. What was this, some shitty set up to some 'cabin in the woods' horror flick? He ducked around a corner, noted the newer handiwork of whatever it was they were after, his heart doing a cross between a leap and a full on flat-line.

"Sam?"

That smile – oh God that smile almost killed him.

"Are you hurt?" he growled, hands working their way across the bars of his brother's cage cell.

"No," he sighed, shrugging.

Dean slammed his fists against the metal, body shivering a little as the vibrations passed their way through his bones, rattling his teeth.

"Damn it's good to see you."

He meant it – more than Sam would ever really know. The panic – it had almost made him sick. He'd remembered in the past the times Sam hadn't been there when he'd gotten home, the times Sam had run away or got lost on a hunt when they were just going too fast for him. The times his heart jumped into his mouth and his stomach fell out of his ass. Times he wanted to be sick and just fall to his knees at the same time. He'd shouted his throat raw in the middle of that highway – the middle of that parking lot until the locals had begun to crowd. The attention had forced him into some sort of hiding, but he knew that if he'd been allowed to he would have gone on shouting for his brother a lot longer – more than likely until he'd lost his voice completely. All it had taken was their dad's journal left alone – Sam and their dad didn't get on but he damn well knew Sam wasn't reckless enough to leave it unaccompanied. That's all it had taken…

They just looked at each other, both of them breathing heavily, Sam still having that puppy-dog smile pasted on his face as though his brother was an angel sent to drag him from the cage – as though Dean was the sweetest damned thing walking the earth and breathing his air. Dean was aware he probably didn't look much different, but relief flooded through his veins cold and crisp and warm at the exact same time leaving him almost breathless with the feel of it. That feeling? That feeling was the defeat of panic – that was what winning felt like.

"How did you get out of those cuffs?"

Shit. He'd forgotten about her. He turned, ripping himself out of the bubble they'd created unknowingly, blinking as if re-seeing their situation for the first time. He sighed, shifting a little uncomfortably, a child with his hand caught in the cookie jar. He hated dealing with cops – no matter how nice and logical this one seemed to be. Then again she had cuffed him to her car…

"Uh – I know a trick or two."

That seemed to answer that. Dean turned back to the task at hand, his brother's eyes on him as he swept the twisted lines of metal, fingertips running lightly over the bars as his mind ticked over how exactly they were going to pull this particular escape off. Each bar hummed melodically as he brushed it, small frown lines appearing between his eyes as he concentrated, something he'd picked up far too recently from his little brother.

"Alright – ooooh," he murmured, eyeing the padlock. "These locks look like they're gonna' be a bitch."

"Well there's some kind of automatic control – over there," Sam offered, one arm worming its way through one of the holes to point, Dean's eyes following in that general direction until he spotted a small metal box attached to one of the pillars of the barn.

"Have you seen 'em?" He could feel the strain in voice, elected to ignore the way the idea of them ruffled his feathers. He would deal with them later.

"Yeah – dude – they're just people," Sam added, a little incredulously. Dean felt as though he'd missed out on something big-time.

"And they jumped you?" It was his turn to be a little disbelieving. If and when they got out of there – he'd rip the piss out of Sam for that a whole lot later. Sam shook his head a little, soft hair falling over his eyes. Dean stifled a smirk. "Must be getting a little rusty there kiddo." Yeah – he wasn't going to live that one down any time soon.

"What do they want?" He shouted over his shoulder, eyes roaming the contents of the metal box, unsure whether he had time to scope it out first before digging his hand in there.

"I dunno'… they let Jenkins go but that was some sort of trap."

Dean flicked the lid, decided that his best bet was to push as many buttons as possible and hope to hell that something would work out for them for once.

"It doesn't make any sense to me," Sam muttered, as if to himself.

"Yeah well – that's the point. You know with our usual playmates there's rules, there's patterns. But people – they're just crazy." He flipped the lid shut when bashing buttons failed to elicit a response from the mechanism, rolling his eyes a little at their shit lack of luck. His eyes roamed the pipework, the lines, the wires – literally anything that could give him an answer to the rubix cube of a shit storm they were currently stuck in.

"See anything else while you were out there?"

"Ahhh – think there was about a dozen junked cars out back, plates from all over so I'm thinkin' that when they take someone they take their car too."

"Did you see a black Mustang – out there? About 10 years old?"

Damn – he kept forgetting she was there.

Dean quirked an eyebrow, "Yeah actually… I did." It dawned on him then – the whole puzzle pieces fitting together deal, the look on her face testament to the look on his when he'd realised he'd lost his brother. "Your brother's?" She nodded, though not to affirm his deductions, more as a way of acceptance of the fact that her brother, the person she and Dean had had in common in all this mess, probably wasn't ever coming back. "I'm sorry," he murmured, voice raw.

"Let's get you guys out of here then we'll take care of those bastards," he added, jumping back to the task at hand. Dean whirled around once, full on scoping out the place before turning his attentions back to his brother. "This thing takes a key – key?"

"I er – I dunno'."

"Right – well I better go find it."

"Hey," Dean froze when a hand encircled his wrist, skin rough and warm against his. Sam's face was enough to make his heart do that pansy-ass fluttering thing, enough to make him stop in his tracks. The word 'What' ghosted over his lips, a mere murmur before Sam tugged him closer, Dean's hands coming to rest against the bars of his brother's cage as Sam came up to join him, lips meeting his in the most chaste of kisses. But it was enough, enough to tip Dean over the edge, enough to throw the hunter back a good few years when he'd last felt the warmth of his brother's touch in that way. One of Sam's giant paws came to rest against his chest, his other still cuffing him to his body as they parted slightly, breaths warm and damp against each other's cheeks, a soft blush turning Dean's skin petal pink. Dean raised an eyebrow as Sam dropped his head, small, coy smile playing across his lips.

"What was that for Princess?" He murmured, revelling momentarily in the glow of the moment.

"Just – just be careful… okay?"

Dean freed a hand and ran it through his brother's soft hair, mussed it like he'd used to when Sam had been no taller than his shoulder, noting how he had to reach to repeat the motion now when, back then, all Sam had to do was curl up in the crook of his arm and Dean could go all night.

"Come on Sammy," he smirked, thumb outlining the smoothness of his brother' jaw, "careful's my middle name – you should know that."

Sam scoffed but seemed to accept that, hands releasing his brother and falling lightly to his sides. He ran a hand through his own hair, fingertips following in the footsteps of his brother's as he backed to the other side of the cage, eyes slightly glazed though, when Dean looked back before slipping through the door, there was a smile in his brother's eyes that he hadn't seen in too long a time, the type to touch the hazel and set it alight, the glow of a man who'd reconciled, who'd found something he'd lost.

"I thought you said you were cousins…"

Dean's eyes flicked first from Kathleen and then back to his brother, the whole look of 'hand caught in the cookie jar' returning to both of them, Dean batting down a chuckle as his hand fell on the cold metal of the door handle. Sam shook his head and Dean worried his lower lip, both boys grinning in a way they hadn't done since they were kids.

"Yeah – somethin' like that."

(.:.)

"Sam!"

There'd been searching for so long – so, so long.

To lose him again… why was he so easy to lose? Why couldn't he just remain in one damn fucking place? It was nothing short of stupid. The kid was a magnet to trouble – fucking followed him wherever he went, the result being Dean dealing with the messes and the devastation he'd leave in his wake. So yeah – Sam was a pain in the ass for getting lost.

It looked like so many places they'd been before – all their hunts had begun to merge into one mass shit pile of dilapidated barns and houses, parking lots and empty fields of mud and nothing. Everywhere looked the same- everywhere fucking smelt the same. The stars above their head held no warmth of memory – no sanctity in the way their light cut through the cold, millions of eyes watching the proceedings but taking a backseat to the action, offering little to no help – content enough to watch everything unfold. Dean'd come to despise the bastard things – hated the night. It concealed and covered and protected all the things out to get them both killed, had swallowed them both up more times than he'd cared to count and it seemed more than happy to spit them out in bloody and torn pieces on the other end. It was just another night – him and Bobby searching for his little brother's wayward ass in a scene that lay as though painted from every memory he had, dark, drizzly and dank – all the makings of a great story somewhere down the line (though he highly doubted they'd ever really live long enough to tell tales).

"I dunno' boy – we've looked everywhere."

"He's here somewhere Bobby – come on I know it. We just need to-"

They rounded the last corner, eyes taking a moment to become accustomed to the glare of the moon. The beam of the flashlight roved over the ground, illuminating everything in its path, caressing splintered wood and broken brick with its silken touch, pouring itself across the surface of puddles and potholes like molten lead. Their boots crunched in the slick gravel, surface shifting under their boots, rainwater running in freezing rivulets down his face and neck, droplets seeking refuge beneath the collars of his shirts and jacket, intent on making him as damp and as uncomfortable as possible. But he wasn't mistaken, as much as his eyes and body and mind wanted to tell him otherwise, as much as they fought amongst one another to try and confuse.

"Sam?"

His voice – oddly questioning. They'd searched for so long to try and find him, a small voice at the back of his head telling him to give up – to accept the fact that Sam was gone for good this time – that he was looking for a body and not the living, breathing soul he'd come to love again. But he'd been stoic in his resolve, the very proof of that standing before his eyes. His breath fogged in front of his face, both men pausing as if in disbelief of their own senses. For the boy with the brown eyes stood sodden in the rain, face pained, arm clutched to his chest and hand clasped around it as though letting go would risk losing it entirely, eyes alight with torchlight. Dean's heart dropped into his stomach at the look of reprieve, the relaxation of every single muscle as he caught his little brother' gaze and held it, content to just stare. Because there was no better feeling than that; Sam was there – he was alive and he was breathing and he was right there.

"Dean."

The way he said his name – the relief that weighed on his words. Because Sam smiled – Sam smiled like a lost man found, like a man who'd resigned himself to idea that he was as good as gone in the eyes of his brother and the world, in the eyes of the stars and the night that stretched and yawned lazily above his head. He stepped towards him, one foot in front of the other, wobbling in his gait as though unsure of his own capabilities. All Dean saw was a sodden two year old with the light of life and laughter in his eyes, rubber soles of his sneakers squeaking slightly as they scraped against the lino tiles of the kitchen, his own arms outstretched to catch the inevitable fall. Because Sam's first steps had been towards Dean – he'd never forget that.

But it was too late to stop the fall – he was too far away to catch. The panic paralyzed each and every cell inside of his body to a point where it almost hurt to breathe, where moving and thinking and functioning now lay in the realms of instinct and not conscious thought. There was no fast-forward or rewind – no way of changing the outcome. It was going to happen and there was nothing he could do about it – words too slow, the 'Sam look out' he'd nearly screamed tearing his throat on exhale. It had all been too slow. He'd needed more time – he'd always needed more fucking time.

He was still smiling when it hit, when the blade buried itself in his back and took him down. He'd still had that look of light in his eyes, the look he'd worn when Dean had turned up to pull him out of that God damn cage not long enough ago, the look he'd worn when Sam'd unfurled himself in his lap after the onslaught of gunfire had ceased all those years ago in the Impala – when he'd looked up and kissed the tip of his brother's nose and whispered his 'thank you', the look he'd worn when at around a year old he'd stumbled into his brother' arms because he'd walked there – he'd fucking walked to him. Dean felt his blood turn to ice, every muscle and vein and sinew in him constricting to a point he found himself struggling to breathe. Because Sam went down – Sam went down and he was too damn far away to catch him.

He screamed – he screamed his protest as though that in itself would stop the inevitable. Dean and Bobby charged forwards, boots splashing through the mud and the shit and the puddles of water in a bid to close the gap between them, the shadow that had floored his sibling turning tail and running into the God damned darkness, engulfed by it, consumed by it as though that was all they fucking needed. There was no help to be found above their heads – that had been plain to see for a long, long time. The world around them acted as if to hinder their activities – as if their damned jobs weren't difficult enough already without the night itself playing against them and taking away the very thing Dean needed to end for tearing the light from his kid's eyes.

Sam fell to his knees, Dean following suit not long after, little brother's head turned towards the Heaven's as they rained down over his blind eyes, the water that pooled beneath his lashes a mix of freshwater and salt. The footsteps of others speedily dissipated into the distance as Bobby too was engulfed by it, lost to sight and mind. Nothing else was important – nothing else would ever be as important as this. Sam fell into him, Dean fisting his hands into his baby brother's shirt to hold him still, hold him up as Sam faded in and out, eyes focusing on little and seeing even less. Dean searched his face, a sign – anything to kid him that this wasn't heading down a one way route he'd hoped never to have to bear witness to. This wasn't how this was supposed to go –

He could barely even hear himself repeating his brother's name as his constant attempts to stabilise Sam continued to fail, as his body became increasingly heavy in his arms, as the boy wavered on his knees. His head lolled a little to the side, mop of chestnut hair concealing some of the blood the escaped the corners of his lips, staining them red in a way Dean had seen far too many times before. But there was a finality to this moment that had him scrabbling on the edge of sanity, clinging to it like a lifeline. He couldn't lose him – this wasn't the plan.

"Sam – come on. Let me take a look at you."

He tugged him into him, Sam's chin resting against his shoulder, one hand carding through his brother' hair as Dean surveyed the damage, palm coming away dripping scarlet. His stomach turned and turned again, chest tight and straining against the rising fear that was still in the unrelenting process of trying to claw its way out of his already raw throat.

"Hey – look. Look," he murmured, cupping Sam's chin in his hand, "it's not even that bad alright? Sammy? Sam!"

He wasn't looking at him – something that scared him more than anything. The kid wasn't there – wasn't present on their plain of existence, seemed to be floating in and out of their reality like a breeze of wind in the process of dying down. Sam seemed to be able to look anywhere but into the searching gaze of his brother's eyes but he wasn't taking no for an answer. It wouldn't end like that.

"Hey! Listen to me – we're gonna' patch you up okay? You'll be good as new. Huh? I'm gonna take care of you – I'm gonna' take care of you. I gotcha' – that's my job right? Watch out for my pain in the ass little brother?"

All the while he touched him, touched his face, fingertips caressing his brother's fevered temples, smoothing the creases of his eyes, outlining the soft curve of his jaw just so that Sam'd be able to feel that he was there.

"Sam?"

The boy with the light of the Heaven's in his eyes closed them at the mention of his name, his lover's hands still on his face and in his hair, the way Dean had used to hold him in the early hours of morning, gently caressing, a permanent presence. The stoic resolve that had held him together all but cleaved itself in two at the lack of response, his brother's name falling from his lips over and over again like a prayer and a curse, bittersweet on his tongue, Dean giving up each breath as an offering to his brother until he found himself dizzy with lack of oxygen. He found himself shaking his head despite it all – almost as if straight up refusal would change the outcome. It wasn't happening like this – it shouldn't have ever happened like this.

"No – no, no, no, no, no, no. No!"

It was then he hugged him – placed a kiss upon chilled lips still warm from the life of a last breath. It was at that point that Dean found himself handing in his resignation having searched his brother's face for any sign of a future, any sign of a breath or the flutter of eyelids that'd mark another sunrise – another morning curled up around one another in the hazy light of dawn. The emergence of such acceptance manifested itself in a way that can only be compared to having your chest wrenched apart, what little air had been trapped in his chest whistling from between pursed lips as he held to him a body he'd had that hand in raising, as he clutched to him the child he'd lived and loved alongside, the kid he'd loved and lost more times than any man should ever have to live through.

Sam was still but he was warm, a heavy weight in his arms that Dean could kid himself somewhere down the line was due to sleep and not another more painful finality. They knelt together for an hour or more in the darkness, the thrum of the rain against his shoulders and neck numbing the skin to the extent of pain. Water seeped through his jeans and dampened his skin though he failed to feel it, tears having long run dry. There was nothing – he felt nothing.

It took Dean Winchester twenty or something years before he finally truly understood the meaning of the terms 'Poetic Justice' and 'Irony', knelt as he was beneath the stars as if in prayer to yet another absent and unforgiving Father, another son lost and forgotten beneath his merciless gaze. Sam had gone cold but he felt colder, the light of dawn hovering in the haze, light breaking over the backs of the buildings in the distance though it brought no warmth or solace to those that still lay wallowing in what the night had left behind. It didn't take him long either to realise where this would all eventually lead – what would have to be done to rectify such a colossal wrong. Because as had been said earlier – this wasn't the way things were supposed to go. Sam was better, more beautiful, more precious and more pure than he could ever dream of being, from the slivers of silver in the hazel of his eyes to the warmth of a kiss shared with the only person in the world that could ever really love him as much as he deserved – this wasn't how it was ever supposed to end for him. Sam was his responsibility now – still half civilian half solider but with a choice in the matter.

Dean shifted, legs numb, joints and bones crackling and screaming in protest as he shifted their weights, the breaths he allowed to ghost over his brother's forehead warming the skin where he pushed back the hair where it lay sodden and stuck. He closed his eyes against the coming morning, lips pursed and pressed lightly to Sam's brow, stray tear somehow plucking up the courage to break cover and make itself known. No – Sam had a choice, the world they patrolled the line of allowed for that. As far as Dean was concerned if the body was willing, which it more than was, the soul would soon follow suit. Sam was humanity – and if Dean had to lose his to reinstate Sam's then so be it.


End file.
